


tip of your tongue

by gaysubtexts



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, kinda makes me nauseous if i'm bein honest, like srs fluff u don't even understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysubtexts/pseuds/gaysubtexts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>liam is desperately in love with zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tip of your tongue

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this domestic fluffy ass fic because all i write is depressing shit and i wanted to try something new. unbeta’d like most of my stuff so sorry for any mistakes. also, i wrote this fairly quickly and i’m not particularly good at writing happy things, so sorry if this sucks lol.

It’s morning.

Or, actually, the sun is still rising, and through the blinds Liam can make out that dawn has passed and the rays of light should be streaming in at full force any second now. It causes him to wince as he rubs sleep from him eyes, his vision still blurry from late-night conversation and perpetuated kissing.

(Falling asleep while kissing Zayn isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened. It’s something about the comfort deep within his chest; the steady rise and fall; the feeling of home in it, he thinks, that he can’t go to sleep without. And when Zayn insists it must be because he doesn’t interest Liam anymore, Liam only kisses him more furiously, begs him to understand that he’s the only thing that interests him, ever.)

It just might be his favourite part of his day, he thinks, watching Zayn sleep. It doesn’t matter if he’s lying on his stomach or his back; either way, Liam can still count the number of times he inhales and exhales; the number of times he breathes so soundly; the number of times his chest rises and falls so serenely. How, sometimes, his lips (which are, more often than not, just a little chapped) are slightly parted, his breath hitching every so often. Zayn’s lashes are long, so long, inhumanly long, like spider legs attached to his eyelids; black as coal and curled at the ends as if done by a professional. (And Liam counts them one by one.)

He craves Zayn’s attention, wants him to wake up and kiss him good morning after yawning sloppily and start his morning routine – but he’s so peaceful looking, his face not filled with a single trouble in the world, and Liam doesn’t have the heart to mercilessly wipe it off his face.

(So instead, he continues counting.)

-

Liam knows what the sweetest sound is, the voice of angels is, the one word that changed his life is. (Telling Zayn everything he loves about him, confessing and professing that love and promising to cherish him until the end of time. Getting on one knee and presenting a silver band, engraved on the inside, you, you, always you.)

_(Will you, Zayn Malik, do me the honour of making me the happiest man alive – will you let me cherish you, let me love you – will you let me mend your broken bones – and marry me?)_

It’s the voice of angels.

_(Yes.)_

-

And, if he’s being honest, he loves helping Zayn start his day.

He adds a filter to the basket, carefully measures out the water and coffee grounds, turns on the coffee maker. He doesn’t immediately throw the filter away, though. (Zayn’s taste buds are of a different kind and always crave something a bit more bitter.)

“Morning,” Zayn chimes, doesn’t bother to stifle his yawn as he descends the steps, and places a messy kiss on Liam’s lips (it ends too fast for Liam’s liking; the taste of Zayn lingers long afterward.)

“Morning,” he replies, licks where Zayn’s lips have barely made a mark. “Coffee’s on the table. What are you craving for breakfast this morning?”

Zayn rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “You don’t have to make me anything, Liam. I’m only twenty-two years old.”

Liam shrugs. “I want to.”

Zayn sips his coffee, sighs contentedly. “You sure do make a damn good cup of coffee. Hmm, I’ll have an omelet, I think.”

“Coming right up, then.” And like always he works his magic and in less than ten minutes the plate’s in front of Zayn on the table and he’s scarfing it down with fervor.

Liam sits himself across from Zayn, a mug warming his hands. He laughs lightly. “An animal, you are.” And Zayn shrugs as if to say ‘yeah, what of it?’ and smiles back.

Zayn checks his watch, wipes his mouth with a napkin after taking the last bite. “I’d better get going. Need to be at work early today.”

Liam sighs (more like whines) loudly, and he’s sure he’s pouting in the process. “All right.”

Zayn walks over to his side, kisses the top of his head. “It’s a good thing. Means I’ll get off early. I’ll be back before you know it, babe.”

(But for Liam, hours are like days.)

-

Before heading out the door, Zayn stops in front of Liam and points to the haphazard mess that is supposed to be his tie, a pleading look on his face.

“You’re how old?” Liam says, “And you still don’t know how this is done. Shame.”

“Shove off,” Zayn says, but he laughs.

Even after trying to teach him sixteen times (no, Zayn, you loop it through here, see?) Zayn still insists he doesn’t understand how it’s done; the loops and twists and turns of getting it just right so that it looks presentable and professional.

“Did I pick a good colour?” he asks, eyeing Liam, waiting for approval.

Liam doesn’t wait to respond, too impatient to play hesitant. “Any colour looks good on you.”

“You flatter me.” And the second Liam’s finished fixing his tie and brushing stray pieces of lint off his broad shoulders, Zayn puts his hands on either side of Liam’s waist, uses them to pull him close so his lips are on Liam’s ear. “Almost too much.” His breath tickles Liam’s skin and his head jerks as a reflex.

The way Zayn kisses him is slow, burns and smolders without permission. Zayn’s teeth suck on Liam’s bottom lip, stay there for what feels like eternity, until Zayn breaks away and every ounce of Liam screams ‘no! no! no!’ but he holds it in as best he can.

-

It isn’t until Zayn opens the bag containing his lunch that he finds the yellow sticky note attached to the top of his food container.

You are my everything, darling. Xx

-

It’s a nervous itch, waiting for Zayn every day. It’s weird because he’s been in relationships – plenty of them, actually – but none have ever felt quite like this; where he’s so lost and alone and so completely not put together without Zayn. His heart beats to a different rhythm, one that screams at him to stop thinking about it, just focus on the task at hand, he’ll be home soon, but it’s never that easy, is it? It consumes him, this feeling, threatens to crush the matter surrounding his heart.

The feeling, he realized long ago, is emptiness, and though he can’t pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love, he does remember the weight of his heart increasing each second he spent in the arms of a boy with olive skin and lashes too long to be real.

It’s moments like these he realizes he should probably get a full time job to mirror Zayn’s, but work’s never been a real hobby. It’s not like he sits around and does nothing all day but it’s still not enough to keep his mind occupied.

He doesn’t mind the cleaning – really, he doesn’t – the dusting and mopping and laundry, it’s good, keeps his mind steady, keeps him on task, but like always –

It’s not quite enough.

-

He dials the familiar number, puts his mouth to the receiver.

“Hi, it’s Zayn. I’m not here at the moment, but if you leave a message, I might get back to you.”

He starts –

“Someone asked me what home was, and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside your ribcage.”

– hangs up.

And hopes it’s good enough.

-

Hearing Zayn unlock the dead bolt makes Liam’s heart pound unnecessarily, his palms sweat, his nerves jump. And it gives him a good laugh, really, because he isn’t a teenager anymore – neither of them are – and the whole butterflies-in-stomach thing seems so juvenile. But he can’t help it.

This is the price you pay for being in love.

And then Zayn’s passing the threshold and barely has his bag on the ground when Liam cups his face hungrily and meshes their lips together, sloppy and needy and all the frustrations of the day built up into one moment.

And Zayn doesn’t have to be told twice. His hands run up and down Liam’s back, his sides, his entire torso. They make their way over Liam’s arms, memorizing each vein that pops through his translucent skin, the blood flowing at rapid speed through each one.

“Missed,“ – kiss – “you.”

Zayn laughs against Liam’s lips, his breath blown into Liam’s mouth. “Not even a hello?”

“Fuck it,” Liam breathes, and before Zayn can say anything else, Liam’s peeling off his clothes like they were the most useless things in the world. And Zayn lets him.

They can’t make it to the bed which is all the way upstairs, so the living room floor will have to do. Liam’s hands continue to explore the depths of Zayn’s body: his stomach, his collarbones, his neck, his hips and the bones that jut out like perfectly carved mountains from them. He marks himself on Zayn in the form of dark circles, purple and blue, and they scream you are mine, all mine, always. The groans coming from the back of Zayn’s throat only encourage Liam to go further, to not stop, to keep going, and his kisses trail from Zayn’s neck to his ear to his lips and back. Down his sternum and over his stomach and at the head of Zayn’s cock –

“Fuck,” he moans, “fuck, Liam.” He grabs Liam’s hair – probably for support – and massages his head, urges him forward. Liam comes back up so he’s level with Zayn, their eyes boring into one another’s, filled with nothing but naked lust and passion and whatever other cliché adjective you can throw at two lovers.

Liam kisses Zayn, and it doesn’t fit the image they’re painting in the present, the one of hungry and needy and hormone-driven, but it’s more like the kiss they shared earlier that morning, burning slowly. Liam takes his time memorizing the feeling of Zayn’s lips on his own, the taste, the texture, the euphoria.

When he’s inside Zayn, he comes alive (in more ways than one.) It’s the expression on Zayn’s face, his mouth slightly hung open, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, the moans escaping his mouth that he couldn’t stop if he wanted to – all of it drives Liam insane, and it alone is enough to make him come, unsteady and panting heavily.

He comes before Zayn, but is careful to wait until Zayn’s had his fill, too; waits ‘til he’s shaking beneath him, beads of sweat rolling from his temples, moaning, “Liam, Liam, god, Liam.” (The most satisfying thing Liam’s ever heard.) Only then does he collapse next to Zayn and allow himself composure.

“Fucking hell,” Zayn says, trying to catch his breath.

“More like fucking me,” Liam says, and goose bumps form at the spot where Zayn places his hand (his stomach.)

-

They snack on almonds, and in between each bite Zayn turns his head every which way as if irritated.

“What’s wrong?” Liam asks.

“Neck’s been bothering me lately,” Zayn answers, “as well as my shoulders. Might as well add my back to the list while I’m at it.”

“You been doing any strenuous workouts lately?”

Zayn clicks his tongue. “Nah, nothing different from the usual.”

“Here,” Liam says, and stands behind him where he’s sitting, starts rubbing into the tough skin masking Zayn’s shoulder blades. “How’s that?”

“Mmm,” Zayn mutters in response, and Liam notices that his eyes are closed. He works his way up to the edge of his shoulders, then travels to his neck, and back to his blades again. “Love when you pamper me. You’re brilliant.”

“It’s nothing,” Liam says. But he’s reveling in it.

-

The mile-long walk around the perimeter of the lake is more for relaxation than anything else. Zayn bumps Liam’s shoulder and Liam thinks it’s just an accident until it happens twice more; after that, it’s revenge.

“Ow,” Zayn whines, “go easy on me, yeah? I’m an old man.”

“Not quite,” Liam says, and puts Zayn in a headlock before tangling his arm over his shoulder and bringing his lips to Zayn’s hair.

“Oi,” Zayn says, pointing forward, “swings!” And he’s running off in the direction of slides and monkey bars.

When he sits his ass in the seat and Liam’s hands shove him forward trying to help, he says, “C’mon, Liam, you don’t have to push me.” His feet push hard against the woodchips, trying to start off on good momentum, aiming to get as high into the sky as possible. “Swing with me instead.”

Their speed is slow at first, and for the longest time they swing lazily back and forth, holding each other’s hands (Liam placing soft kisses on Zayn’s ring finger over and over and over), basking in the beauty of unspoken words. (They’re saying so much but speaking so little.)

It isn’t the first time they’ve been here, nor will it be the last, Liam’s sure of that. And when they’re plunging high into the sky as the sun sets right in front of them, Zayn’s hair waving back and forth uncontrollably in synchronization with his movement, his laughter reverberating so loudly in Liam’s ears, Liam can’t imagine it being any different.

(Rather, he can’t imagine not feeling this content.)

“Got your voicemail earlier,” Zayn says, their hands still linked by invisible glue. “It was beautiful. Did you write it?”

Liam blushes a bit. “Just a little something I came up with while you were sleeping a while ago.”

“Oh?” Zayn probably couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried.

Liam shrugs, embarrassed. “Sounds better on paper than spoken allowed, I think.”

Zayn stands and offers his hand, drags Liam to the bench, and slaps his lap. Liam promptly sits on it as Zayn’s arms envelop him like a gift he wants to hold close.

“You think of me as home, do you?” Zayn whispers faintly, and Liam tries to stare into the sunset as a distraction but it’s far too bright and his eyes water instead.

When he doesn’t respond, Zayn continues, “You’re too good for me, Liam, you know that?” Liam can’t help but look at him then, and he’s sure he looks absolutely ridiculous in his pseudo crying state but he doesn’t try to explain anyhow.

“That isn’t true.” He rubs at the moisture around his eyes and Zayn doesn’t question it. “You’re the very best thing in my life.” He lifts Zayn’s chin up, trails feathery kisses against his jawline, so softly it makes Zayn squirm a bit (he’s always been too ticklish for his own good.) “Can’t,” – kiss – “get,” – kiss – “enough,” – kiss – “of,” – kiss – “you.” His fingers trace Zayn’s nose, his neck, his collarbones, his lips pressing against his pulse point, leaving a territorial mark there. It’s as if simply brushing against Zayn’s skin isn’t enough, isn’t sufficient, and will never be.

(But he thinks the journey of learning how to deal with it is worth the agony.)

-

“I can’t stand it,” Liam says after brushing his teeth and climbing into bed, stroking Zayn’s cheek, “I can’t stand it when you’re not around.” He doesn’t mean to sound clingy or whiny or dependent, really, he doesn’t. He sighs heavily, removes his hand from Zayn’s face. “Love fucks you up.” Closes his eyes.

He feels Zayn bury himself in Liam’s neck, smile against the skin there. “You love me, do you?”

“I only tell you, oh, I don’t know, every day or so,” Liam says, rolling his eyes.

“Really? That’s funny. I don’t think I’ve heard it once today.”

“Impossible,” Liam says, “I never go a day without.”

“Seems today you do.” He bites lightly at Liam’s skin, and it makes the hairs on Liam’s body stand up.

Liam turns to face him, and not even two seconds pass before he breathes, “I love you.” And it’s so light, so carefree and so easily done you would know it took no pondering at all.

“I love you,” Zayn replies, his breath blowing in Liam’s face, smelling of freshly cut mint. He wiggles the ring off his finger, turns it in his hands, examines the inside of it.

“Something wrong?” Liam asks, and he doesn’t mean for his lips to pout, he doesn’t.

“I just don’t get it,” Zayn replies. “Millions of phrases in the world – millions you could’ve chosen from – “

Liam’s breath hitches, gets caught someone in his throat.

“And yet, you choose the perfect one.” Zayn faces him, the length of his lashes overwhelming and unnecessary. “How is that possible?”

Liam cards through Zayn’s hair, rubs it from his forehead slowly, lovingly. “You.”

Places a kiss on Zayn’s shoulder. “You.”

Puts his hand on Zayn’s hip, presses a kiss to his lips, one that’s undying and never-ending and eternal; one that shivers in the dark of night with anticipation of the days to come; one that whispers happiness. “Always you.”


End file.
